


hmu l8r qt?

by siderealOtaku



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Characters Playing Pokemon GO, Coworkers - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Pokemon GO Shenanigans, Ryoma uses way too many emojis, Slow Burn, Texting, Xander is so done with that fact, apologies for ryoma's horrendous texting skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 20:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14755698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku
Summary: Xander's new coworker is infuriating. His texts are more image and symbol than word. He seems to have never heard the words "dress code" in his life. He runs around the office knocking into people, all for an app which Xander is pretty sure nobody even plays anymore. He's irritating, he's hopeless, he's impossible...and he makes Xander smile more than anyone he's ever met before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a longer-form story in several years. Let's see how it goes. 
> 
> This story was inspired by a piece of fanart drawn by the amazing qvoro. The art in question can be found here: http://qvoro.tumblr.com/post/167888189055/modern-au-coffee-twitter although I recommend you look at the rest of qvoro's tumblr as it is filled with many amazing pieces of RyoMarx art. (Also, the scene most directly inspired by that piece won't happen until much later in the story, so...spoilers, I guess?)

On his first day as a junior salesman at Lodestar Security Systems, Xander wakes up at exactly five AM. He showers, combs his hair, presses his suit for the third time in twenty-four hours, and manages to eat half his bowl of plain, unseasoned oatmeal before Camilla insists on ruining it by dumping in nearly an entire container of brown sugar. He debates between two nearly identical black ties, very pointedly putting the pink one Elise had laid out for him back in the drawer. As a last touch, he tucks a perfectly laundered handkerchief into his breast pocket. 

At seven forty five AM, all of that careful preparation is ruined as he collides with a man walking backwards across the lobby of the building, trips, falls, and spills the entire Thermos of carrot soup he’d brought for lunch, staining his shirt, jacket, tie, and even the carefully folded handkerchief. 

The man offers him a smile _(lopsided)_ and a hand _(warm if slightly sweaty)_ to help him up, but no apology. Instead, he gestures vaguely at the screen of his latest-model smart phone and says something _(in a voice as warm as his hands)_ that makes absolutely no sense to Xander’s admittedly scrambled brain. 

“There’s a gym in here.” 

Xander isn’t usually the confrontational sort, but it’s the first day of work, his suit is ruined, and, unless that man was taking a call from the CEO of Lodestar Security himself, he’s pretty sure there is no cell phone related excuse that justifies walking backwards through the lobby of a Fortune 500 company. Especially not one that seems to have something to do with searching for the location of the employee fitness center fifteen minutes before the start of the workday. 

So instead of walking away, he futilely attempts to wipe his carrot-stained face with his carrot-stained handkerchief with one hand while insistently reaching for the man’s phone with the other. The man _(red shirt white tie rolled up sleeves has he never heard of dress codes before in his life)_ worsens the situation by misinterpreting his intentions entirely. 

“Oh, yeah, just put your number in and shoot me a text with how much the dry cleaning bill ends up being. I guess paying it is the least I can do.” 

_Actually, the least you could do was apologize_ , Xander thinks as he takes the phone _(bright red case, doesn’t he know there’s such a thing as too much color coordination)_ and looks down to see, not a contacts list or an empty field into which to enter his number, but a cartoony, pixelated map of the surrounding area scattered with a series of square blue and purplish-pink markers. 

_Oh._

Xander closes the app with a distinctive _click_ noise _(of course the man can’t even be bothered to keep his damn phone on silent)_ and hands it back to the red-shirted annoyance without entering his phone number. He wants to say something about how he’ll be reporting the man to HR, but he realizes that he doesn’t know his name or what department he’s in or even whether he works here or is just some random vagabond who wandered in off the street because there was, in his own words, _“a gym in here”._

Instead, he says: “I thought everyone stopped playing that game a month after it came out.” 

“I didn’t,” says the man as he accepts the phone back _(his hands still warm, but less sweaty, he hasn’t got a handkerchief so he probably wiped them on his pants, the barbarian)_. He starts to tuck it back into his pocket with a sheepish expression when a jangling alert issues from the game and he once again raises the device nearly to eye level, peering at whatever collection of pixels has suddenly appeared. 

“Fuck,” he swears, and a shiver runs down Xander’s spine at the pure unprofessionalism. “Instinct nabbed it back. Later!” Raising a hand to the carrot-stained Xander in a mock-salute, the man takes off across the lobby, this time at a full-out _run_ , his spiky, gelled-yet-somehow-untamed mop of brown hair trailing behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Xander’s late father had gotten his own start at Lodestar, and his eldest child had spent far too many nights at far too young an age silently and mechanically eating fancy but tasteless food as Garon sucked up to his superiors while simultaneously attempting to underhandedly destroy their careers. The tall blonde had hoped that most of his father’s contemporaries had also moved on to greener pastures and taller skyscrapers. Had prayed to anyone Up There who might be listening that whichever executive wound up as his superior would one who had never made jokes about the humorlessness expression of a rail-thin, gold-locked child over bad French wine and overly spicy appetizers. 

Apparently, nobody at all had been listening, for his wish is not granted. 

“You’ve gotten so tall,” Chrom gushes as Xander awkwardly drips carrot soup onto the shag carpeting of the Regional Manager’s private office. “Are you taller than your father, now?” 

“By three and a half inches.” It’s a rote answer – he can’t think of a single one of Garon’s former dinner guests who hadn’t made that exact same remark upon meeting him later in life. 

“Er, yes, sorry…about your father, he…” 

“Your condolences are appreciated.” Xander’s voice is harsher now, has lost some of its studied calm. This man may be his boss, but some subjects are too sensitive for Xander to humor even the man who signs his paychecks. 

“Right, about the um, accident, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a spare changes of clothes somewhere…in here…” Chrom looks around the cluttered office as he absentmindedly uses his left hand to rock the double-wide baby carrier covering most of the desk. “At least, I should, as long as Frederick remembered to wash them after Marc spit up on them the other day…” He trails off, attempting to remember where the spare set of clothes were stashed. 

It’s nearly eight o’clock by the time Chrom admits that he has no idea where his spare outfit is and is forced to ring for the tall, stern-faced brunette who serves as his personal assistant. Despite the efficiency with which Frederick locates the clothes, Xander still finds that the morning meeting has already started by the time he has finished changing. 

The suit he had started out the day in had been crisp and perfectly matched – a white undershirt beneath a classic black jacket, with slacks and a tie to match. The outfit he is forced to borrow from Chrom is nearly the exact opposite. It consists of a rumpled gray jacket which may have seen a washer, but has definitely never made the acquaintance of an ironing board and a pair of navy blue slacks nearly three inches too short for Xander’s unfortunately long legs. (He pulls up his mercifully dry socks as high as they can go to hide this fact. He has a sneaking suspicion that the result makes him look like a British schoolboy.) There had been no spare button-up shirt; instead, beneath the horribly wrinkled jacket, he is now clad in a neon green T-shirt reading RAD DAD in bold capital letters.

Merely appearing in such attire in front of the entire Sales Department of Lodestar Security for his first ever morning meeting would have been bad enough. He would already be tormented for the rest of the day – and possibly the next several – by the giggles Chrom tries to hide behind his hand, by Vaike and Sully’s unrestrained laughter, by the fact that even stone-faced _Frederick_ cracks a smile. 

But that’s not what makes that particular morning meeting soar right into the first spot on the _Xander de Nohr’s Top Ten Worst Moments of His Entire Life List._

No, what sends the blonde man’s heart sinking somewhere into the vicinity of his shoes is the fact that, in one of the three chairs at the foot of the table designated for the use of the new junior salesman, next to a white-haired woman he vaguely identifies as a frequent drinking buddy of Camilla’s, is the man who is responsible for all of this in the first place. 

Whose sleeves are still rolled up past his elbows, even in the presence of the Regional Manager and the rest of the senior staff. 

Whose cell phone is sitting on the table in front of him, unsilenced the screen still filled with blue-and-purple landscape of _Pokémon Go._

Who has the nerve to smile and wave at Xander as though he isn’t the sole cause of his new coworker’s misery. 

“Ah, Xander, there you are,” Chrom claps his hands, as though his newest employee had done something far more impressive than merely walk into the room. “You’re just in time! We’ve just finished having our other two newbies introduce themselves, and you’re up next! Er…would you two mind just saying your names again real quick, since Xander probably didn’t catch them?” 

“Corrin Valla,” says the white-haired woman, remaining in her seat but giving Xander an appropriately professional nod. He returns it, grateful that she at least had had the courtesy not to bring up his current attire. 

No such luck, of course, with the wild-haired man. He stands up, offering his hand to Xander for the second time that day. Briefly, reluctantly, Xander shakes it. _(It’s still warm.)_

“Ryoma Hoshido. Nice outfit. It’s perfect for you – _so_ your aesthetic.” The man infuriating says something else, probably another joke about his outfit judging from Vaike and Sully’s renewed laughter, but Xander is unable to hear over the roaring of his own heartbeat in his ears. 

Ryoma _Hoshido._

The man who had knocked into him and ruined his suit on his first day of work is not merely a charmless, graceless boor obsessed with a phone application long declared passé by the court of public opinion. He’s the elder brother of Takumi Hoshido, the ever-irritating classmate of Xander’s own sibling Leo, about whom the eldest de Nohr has heard complaints nearly nightly ever since Leo enrolled in the Business division of Archanea University. He’s related in a similar manner to Sakura Hoshido, Elise’s longest-standing rival in local junior-level music competitions. And he’s the son of Sumeragi Hoshido, his father’s lifetime business arch-enemy, whose company Garon had successfully ruined via a series of underhanded dealings with various crime families and corrupt politicians. 

And, on top of being all of those things, he’s now Xander’s _coworker._

Things could not get any worse.


	3. Chapter 3

That evening, things get worse. 

At precisely seven oh six PM, Xander finishes washing the dinner dishes, slips on the gold-rimmed spectacles he refuses to wear to the office, and sits down at his desk to read over an information packet regarding important clients which Chrom (or, more accurately, Frederick) had prepared for the new hires. Leo is studying, Camilla is out taking her turn to do the grocery shopping, Elise is in her room pretending to do homework, and the eldest de Nohr sibling is at last able to relax in the only way he knows: by turning his full attention to work. 

At seven eleven PM, his peaceful mood is shattered by the jarring _buzz_ of his cell phone’s default text tone. 

He had removed the phone from its usual silent state to prepare for the strong possibility of Camilla forgetting the grocery list yet again. The phone is in his hand and he’s about to send **Remember to get the store brand chicken breast, it’s on sale** when he recalls that Elise had gotten her hands on his phone a few weeks ago and had assigned a different snatch of classical music to each sibling. The generic beep he had just heard meant that the sender could not possibly be Camilla. 

But who else besides his sister would be texting Xander de Nohr at seven eleven PM on a Monday night? 

A sense of trepidation fills his stomach as he reads the utterly nonsensical message flashing on his screen:

_hey hey hey how much $$ do i owe U for this mrn?_

The beep rings out again and a second message appears beneath the first. This one contains no words, but consists entirely of a small cartoon dog shrugging its spotted shoulders as a question mark repeatedly flashes over its head. 

Refusing to admit to himself that his fingers are shaking, Xander takes three tries to successfully type out a properly spelled and punctuated reply. 

**Who is this, and how did you get my number?**

If the sender is some sort of hoax – a “spambot,” as Elise would call them – he figures that they will pick up on his lack of interest and fail to respond to the inquiry, leaving him in peace. He vaguely remembers seeing something on TV about how ignoring these sorts of scams would only result in them bothering you further. 

When the phone _beeps_ again at seven thirteen, then immediately beeps twice more, Xander strongly considers ignoring it entirely, walking down the hallway to Elise’s room and asking her how to block unwanted phone messages.

Somehow, despite his better judgment, what he instead finds himself doing is opening the message and struggling to read yet another string of barely coherent text. 

_BUDDY. you forgot me already?? hurtful my man!_

_Its ryoma! from work!! i asked corn to ask ur sis camilla 4 ur number! cause u didn’t give it to me earlier!_

_*CORRIN shit not corn! :( :( :(_

Xander puts down the phone and slowly rubs his temples, making shallow, circular motions with his index and middle fingers in a hopeless attempt to stave off his growing headache. 

The phone _beeps_ again.

He considers throwing it across the room. He manages to resist the impulse. 

It’s another picture. This one shows a spiky brown hedgehog, waving its claw back and forth in endless repetitive motion. A bright yellow speech bubble above its head proclaims the simple but groan-inducing message: _Hedge-Hi!_

Xander wonders if the hedgehog is meant to represent Ryoma Hoshido himself. Ever observant, the blonde man cannot fail to notice the not inconsequential similarities between the spiky woodland creature and the man’s unkempt tangle of hair. 

A small smile creeps onto Xander’s face. A moment later, he banishes it. He has work to do. This infuriating man, who had _already_ practically ruined one of his best suits, was preventing him from doing so. 

Still…

It _had_ been slightly considerate of him to make the repayment offer, even if he had resorted to questionable means to acquire Xander’s number. 

Sighing, the blonde allows himself to send one more text. 

**You do not owe me anything. I washed the garment at home and the stains came out fine. Thank you for your offer. Goodnight.**

Xander figures that that will settle the matter. 

It does not. 

This time, he gets ten precious moments of blissful silence, alone with his work, before that infernal _beep_ rings out yet again. Anticipating that more texts will follow – Ryoma Hoshido is surprisingly predictable for someone who cultivates an image of being infuriatingly erratic – Xander waits until three more beeps have sounded before checking his phone. 

_WOAH!!! u didn’t take it to a dry cleaner?_

_like, u…u washed it urself? u do ur own laundry? XAN MY MAN!!!_

_could u…teach me ur ways sometime?? Plz plz plz ORZ ORZ_

The fourth message – again, predictably – contains a moving image. This time, though, instead of an animal drawn in cartoon style, it’s a _person,_ a little green-haired girl on her knees in a begging position with her clasped hands thrust forward above her head. Xander vaguely recognizes her as some sort of “digital idol” that Elise was a fan of, and made a mental note to ask his youngest sister what her name was later. 

He pauses, considering his response. To his own surprise, a large part of himself wants to accept. Certainly, Ryoma is irritating, but it is the sort of irritation that, loathe as Xander is to admit it, amuses. In one day, the man has pulled more smiles from his lips than anyone (save Elise) usually can in an entire month. 

His pointer finger hovers over the “Y” of an affirmative response. Ryoma is a co-worker. Building relationships with co-workers is a valuable skill, what his father would have called “networking,” one of the few activities Garon would not have written off as a waste of time…

…Ryoma is a _Hoshido_. Ryoma is Sumeragi Hoshido’s son. 

Ryoma had ruined his first impression at work by forcing him to spend an entire day in a neon RAD DAD t-shirt. 

Ryoma was seemingly incapable of sending a single text without resorting to those idiotic moving images. Ryoma’s entire wardrobe was the same ridiculous shade of red. Ryoma didn’t brush his hair. _Ryoma still played Pokémon Go. DAILY._

Xander sighs. 

He types out a response quickly, forgoing in his irritation his usual checks for proper grammar and spelling - a decision he will soon regret. 

**No I am not going to teach you hoe to do your own laundry. You are an adult, if only by the bare assed definition of the word.**

Ryoma’s reply – replies – are instantaneous. Xander pretends he doesn’t understand. 

_freudian slipz already?_

_my my xan my good man, we’ve only just met_

_buy me dinner 1st atleast!!!_

The blonde doesn’t rise to the bait, even when next message is another picture of the green-haired “idol” girl, this time with her eyes replaced with throbbing red hearts. He does, however, remember to check the spelling of what he promises himself will be his final message. 

**I said no. I meant it. Please cease and desist trying to be my “friend,” or whatever it is that you are doing. And if you spill anything on my suit again, I WILL serve you with a dry-cleaning bill. Goodnight.**

The phone beeps a total of ten more times as he makes his way down the hallway to Elise’s bedroom. Blessedly, thankfully, his tech-savvy younger sister is able to show him how to adjust his settings so that he can only receive texts from registered contacts. 

The few probing questions he dares to ask as she chatters away inform him that the pictures are called “emojis,” the girl’s name is “Singaloid TiKi,” and that “ORZ” is meant to represent a small man begging on his knees. He comes to the conclusion that Ryoma Hoshido has the same tastes in pop culture as a girl just barely beginning high school, and uses this as further evidence to himself that he had made the right decision in rejecting the man’s clumsy overtures at friendship. 

He leaves the phone on his desk for the rest of the night. It does not _beep_ again. 

Before he goes to bed, he ruthlessly empties his mailbox of all of Ryoma’s messages, including the seven frowning face “emojis” and the three crying ones. 


End file.
